


Breaking and Entering Never Looked So Good

by kiss_me_cassie



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon but not really, Clint Barton & Kate Bishop Friendship, F/M, Fluff, neigbors but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_me_cassie/pseuds/kiss_me_cassie
Summary: How the hell had he not only miscalculated which apartment he was breaking into but also not noticed the woman training a gun on him was buck-naked?





	Breaking and Entering Never Looked So Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/gifts).



> For the be_compromised promptathon based on this from CloudAtlas: I've locked myself out of my flat so I'm breaking in via my own bedroom window apart from counting the windows in apartment blocks is hard and oh shit you sleep naked???
> 
> Eternal thanks, as always, to the amazing Crazy4Orcas for all her help on betaing!

Clint jogged down the sidewalk, exhausted and eager to get back to his place after a long and harrowing evening helping Kate and her friends fend of the tracksuit contingent. The dumb suckers had decided Kate's new bar would be an easy target for one of their notorious shakedowns and had tried to hassle her for an exorbitant sum.

He and Kate had shown them, though, and it was likely they wouldn't be back anytime soon, for money or anything else. And if they did come back, he and Kate would be there, bows strung tight, ready to defend the place a second time.

But for now, all Clint wanted was to hang his bow back up on the wall and collapse into bed for a long and dreamless sleep. 

If he could find his keys, that was. Because a quick pat down of his pockets once he got to his building revealed he didn't have a key on him and there was no way for him to get in without it.

He vaguely remembered hearing them hit the bar while he'd been busy leaping over it but had he ever scooped them up and put them back in his pocket? No, he most definitely had not. And he really, really didn't want to walk all the way back there right now just to get them.

So what were his options?

He took a quick inventory of what he had on him. Bow and quiver? Check. Ratty gray hoodie? Check. Wallet? Check. Overextended credit card? Check. He might have been able to use it as a tool to break in, but his building and apartment both had deadbolts, not exactly things he could use a paper thin credit card to…

That's when it hit him. Maybe he couldn't use it on a deadbolt, but he could probably use it to jimmy a window lock on one of the upper floors.

Or he could go back to Kate's bar. All the way back to Kate's bar. On foot.

Right. Window and a credit card it was. 

He looked up at the brick facade of his building and mentally mapped out the location of his apartment. Fourth floor, three windows over. There was even a fire escape conveniently located that he could use to hoist himself up.

With a quick look around to make sure he wasn't being watched, he climbed up easily, took the credit card out of his wallet, and expertly slid it between the window and frame to catch the lock.

Bingo! The window slid silently and smoothly up its tracks.

If he ever fucked up badly enough, apparently he could make it as a petty thief.

He tossed his quiver and bow onto the floor of the bedroom, then pulled himself over the sill. He was halfway through when he heard an angry feminine voice say something to him in some other language. German? Polish? No, not either of those. Russian. She was cursing at him in Russian.

With no small amount of trepidation, he looked up. A small but fierce woman was standing in a bedroom that was most definitely not his and pointing a gun at him. A very lethal looking gun. 

Shit. Had he somehow managed to break into someone else's apartment? 

His first instinct was to reach for his bow, but something about the look in the woman's eyes stopped him. She wasn't some bored housewife who'd had a couple of half-assed sessions at the shooting range. This woman knew what she was doing. The gun -- a well cared for and custom-made Glock, if he wasn't mistaken -- was held expertly in her hands, the barrel trained on his right shoulder, where she could effectively stop him in his tracks but wasn't likely to kill him. Her arms were straight, but not locked, and her legs were slightly apart for balance, the stance of someone who knew what she was doing.

Oh yeah, and she was naked as a jaybird.

It took his brain a good fifteen seconds before that little tidbit filtered through, and how the hell had he not only miscalculated which apartment he was breaking into but also not noticed the woman training a gun on him was buck-naked?

Beautifully, gloriously naked, with large, rounded tits, a tiny waist, and curvy hips he wanted to sink his fingers into as he pulled her down onto his lap and…

Fuck.

This was bad. Because put the body and the face and the gun all together, and Clint was a goner. 

He always had been a sucker for beautiful, lethal women.

That's when his brain started filtering in a few other things about his surroundings, like the intricate brass bed frame and the mounds of fluffy pillows on the bed, some half hidden by a puffy bed cover. A puffy bed cover that would probably feel really soft and warm as he sank down into it to sleep, especially if there was a woman like her curled up with him and… 

The woman cleared her throat and his eyes snapped back to hers.

"This isn't my apartment," he finally said, forcing his brain to work at something other than ogling her and her bed. When she didn't answer, but continued to stare at him down the barrel of the gun, he added, "Can you at least tell me if this is my building? Number 38?"

She remained silent, and he took her silence as indication she wasn't going to shoot him. Well, not right then and there. At least not until she determined if he was an actual threat. So he finished scrabbling over the window sill then stood up, dusting his hands off as he straightened. "Or how about you tell me why you're stark naked?"

"Pretty bold question from a weaponless guy with a gun aimed at him," she said.

He shrugged, showing more bravado than he felt, and gestured towards his bow and quiver. "You're aiming at my shoulder, not my heart or my head, and I'm not entirely weaponless. I could have my bow up and an arrow nocked in seconds if I needed to. Even with a gunshot wound."

She considered his words for a moment, then aimed the gun a bit lower -- at his groin now, he noticed with a wince. "No, it's not your building. You're at 36. And I was sleeping when I heard someone breaking into my bedroom."

"You sleep naked?"

The words were out of his mouth before his brain had a chance to filter them. 

She quirked a brow at him.

"Ok, yeah, that was way out of line," Clint admitted. 

Another thing to add to his long list of things not to do along with counting buildings in the dark while exhausted and drained from a fist fight: Do not ask strange women if they sleep naked. Especially do not ask strange women if they sleep naked while they are aiming a gun at your junk.

"Uh, listen, I'm really sorry, but I…" He trailed off as she lowered the gun and set the safety before placing it on the bedside table. Which, ok, was a good thing - a _great_ thing - except now she was standing there naked without anything to distract Clint from her gorgeous body and how much he'd like to tumble her down onto those frou-frou pillows and… Fuck. This was even worse than having a gun pointed at him.

She shot him a look - half amused, half disgusted - and reached over to grab a silky blue robe off the end of her bed, before sliding it on and tying the belt tightly.

Good. She had clothes on now. That should have helped. Except now he couldn't help noticing how shapely her pale legs were or stop thinking about what would happen if he were to run his fingers up them. Damn. How could he be expected to think clearly? He took a deep breath and focused on the matter at hand. He tipped his head toward the gun on the table.

"Do this mean you're not going to shoot me?" he asked hopefully.

She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs primly in front of her.

"It means I'm not going to shoot you," she confirmed. She cocked her head to the side and eyed him critically. "To be honest, I think you could use a break. You look like crap."

He gingerly reached up and touched the goose-egg on his forehead. He didn't even want to guess what the rest of him probably looked like.

"Yeah, the tracksuit mafia worked us over pretty well." She suddenly got very still and sat up a little bit straighter. Not very much, but Clint was used to observing people's tells and her movements was just big enough that he noticed. Frowning, he narrowed his eyes at her. "You know them?"

She hesitated just the slightest before answering and even then it wasn't much of an answer that she gave. "I'm aware of who they are."

Was she friend or foe? If she was a friend of theirs, he was totally screwed. But if she was a foe, maybe that was one more ally for him and Kate to rely on. How much should he tell her about what had happened?

He eyed the gun on the bedside table and then glanced back at her. If she'd wanted to, she could have already shot him, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd taken him at his word that breaking into her apartment had been a mistake and had lowered her weapon. 

It was probably a stupid thing to do on his part, but his gut told him to trust her. So he did.

"So you know they have a habit of trying to take over local businesses and shake them down for protection money, right?"

She nodded. 

Running a hand through his hair, he continued. "My friend Kate, she recently bought this bar and she wanted to show it off to 'Merica and all her other friends. I stopped by to challenge a couple of the guys to a game of darts. Well, I'm halfway through whipping Billy's butt and the tracksuits show up, demanding payment." He snorted. "Like Kate would pay anyone to protect her, especially them."

She rolled her eyes. "From what I hear, they're not exactly known for their vast intelligence."

Clint couldn't have agreed more.

"Anyway, Kate says no and before you know it, an all out bar brawl starts, Kate and I are taking out our bows, there are arrows and punches flying, and somewhere in the middle of it all, my keys fell out of my pocket."

"That's a hell of a story," she said when he'd finished, her lips curling up in a slight smile. "If the tracksuits hadn't already been on my radar, I might be tempted to think you were making it up."

Which reminded him that she had never really shared how she knew about them. 

"How _do_ you know who they are?" he asked.

"Let's just say I have some special skill sets that would be useful in discouraging their shakedowns and they were brought to my attention by a friend who wanted my help.” She tossed a couple of pillows onto the floor and then snagged a blanket off the bed and threw it at him. “Here." 

He caught the blanket on reflex and then stared at it dumbly.

"What's this for?"

"One of my many skill sets includes breaking and entering, but I'd really rather not attempt it when you're too exhausted to correctly identify the apartment you're trying to break into," she said. She gestured toward the floor. "Make yourself a bedroll and tomorrow morning I'll drive you over to Kate's bar to get your keys."

He squinted uncertainly at her. "Uh, thanks?"

"You can thank me when you buy me breakfast tomorrow."

Clint's head shot up at that. "I'm buying you breakfast tomorrow?"

"Yes," she said, smirking. "And if you play your cards right, dinner too."

Ok, he had to have heard that wrong. He wasn't that lucky. "I think the tracksuit guys hit me harder than I thought and I'm starting to hallucinate."

That made her laugh outright and damn, but what god did he have to thank for leading him to this woman's apartment by mistake?

"It's not a hallucination," she assured him, walking past him to close the window. He admired her legs and the sway of her hips as she walked back to her bed and when she noticed him staring, she threw another pillow at his head. "Stop ogling and go to sleep so we can start on tomorrow."

"But -"

"No buts," she said sternly. "Or I'm going to regret my decision to let you stay the night."

"Yes, ma'am." He spent a few minutes getting himself settled on her floor with the pillows and blanket she'd offered, pleased to discover they _did_ feel as sinfully good as he'd imagined. And they smelled good, too, fresh and clean with a hint of lavender. He wondered if she'd smell the same way up close and personal. He was still pondering it when something else occurred to him. "Hey! I don't even know your name."

"My friends call me Natasha."

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine the friends Nat is helping are Steve and Bucky, who own the local coffee shop but have reasons of their own for not wanting to use their own mad skillz for deterring the tracksuit mafia. Does she introduce Clint and Kate to them? What goes down when Clint finds out Bucky is an ex? WHO KNOWS? Because I'm not gonna write that fic. Its gonna stay a distant fantasy in my head. *g*


End file.
